


Flesh and Bone

by dirtynutmeg (fairdeath)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Haunting, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Rating May Change, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27857309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairdeath/pseuds/dirtynutmeg
Summary: Being a human is probably rough, Corpse supposes.They have this squishy fragile body that needs constant sustenance and maintenance. They’re apex predators, but scared of tiny harmless creatures with eight legs and of things that go bump in the night.Corpse is that thing that goes bump in the night, though. More power to Corpse.But this new human is... different than the rest.
Relationships: Corpse Husband/Sykkuno (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 113
Kudos: 834





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I ain't apologising. You knew what you were getting into when you clicked on this.

Being a human is probably rough, Corpse supposes.

They have this squishy fragile body that needs constant sustenance and maintenance. They’re apex predators, but scared of tiny harmless creatures with eight legs and of things that go bump in the night.

Corpse is that thing that goes bump in the night, though. More power to Corpse.

His domain in the physical realm has changed form and shape as the centuries have passed. As humans explored and spread across the world, so did others like Corpse. For the last human-lifetime, he has _technically_ controlled a 6-mile wide area outside of Los Angeles, but rarely branched out beyond the small, dated house he currently resides in.

It hadn’t taken much for the last family to give up on the home. A couple who moved in, young and in love, pulled up their bootstraps and restored the flecking paint and overgrown gardens of the house into a refreshed and inviting home. After months of lights turning on and off, drawers opening, electronics breaking, and creaking floorboards, the restless and sleep-deprived couple reeked of fear and unease at the slightest gust of wind. Corpse was so full, satiated in a way he hadn’t been in… an immeasurably long time.

The divorce that followed was just as satisfying. A demon does not feed on fear alone. Any strong emotion can fill their plate. The anger, building resentment, and distrust all was a hand-delivered 7-course buffet for Corpse. The left and didn’t come back not long after.

After such a stockpile of energy, Corpse was content to be alone after that. For every open house showing, he caused just enough trouble to put off the inspecting parties – a cold spot here, a light flickering there, pepper in a black shapeless aura in the peripheral vision – nothing major, of course.

It worked until it didn’t. The _for sale_ sign was hidden with a bright and loud banner that said _SOLD_.

Corpse lets the delivery men do their job – fragile masculinity is not his target audience. In addition to the standard home furnishing and assorted boxes, they also heft in crates of pots filled with assortments of greenery. Corpse hasn’t seen greenery so _green_ in a long, long time.

The small, shy man that accompanies the burly movers sticks out like a sore thumb. By the way he hovers over them as they move the plants, like a parent over a newborn, Corpse can tell he’s the new home owner.

He can also tell he’s very, _very_ pretty. His dark hair is tussled and swept to one side, over the top expressions, and doesn’t try to take up more space than he needs in the presence of others. Corpse can’t wait to feed off him.

He doesn’t notice the small, white ball of fluff on the porch in front of him until it locks eyes with him, and lets out the most terrifying growl an animal under 10 pounds can muster.

“Bimbus, shh!” the man chides, scooping him up, a hand under the dog’s stomach. “It’s okay, you’ll get used to it soon, buddy,” he coos to the breathing marshmallow, stroking an ear as he carries in another colourful pot. Oh, a dog. That should be fun. Dogs are much more perceptive of their surroundings than humans.

He waits for a few days before doing anything that humans deem “out of the ordinary”. Corpse waits for him to get comfortable – unpack boxes, set up the important rooms, lay the vines that wander across windowsills, hang the portraits.

Corpse makes the first move when the occupant is watering the plants that sprawl across the porch.

“Oh hello, Jon,” the occupant murmurs in a soft, cotton-candy voice to a glittering pink begonia, droplets from the watering can sparkling as the sunrays touch the leaves, “I’m glad you don’t seem to be too shaken up after the move.”

He repeats the process to every plant he waters. Corpse is astounded – they’re _plants_. Why bother talking to them? The druids he knows talk to their plants, sure, but they’re _weird_.

When his back is turned, Corpse rustles the stem of black prince ficus. The noise is enough to stir the man, a noise of confusion arising from his throat, but he does not turn.

Corpse lifts a hand, claw-like talons extending, skin and cartilage and bone dense and thick over each knuckle. Drawing energy from the rest of his body, he vents his heat all through his fingers before pressing them to a cluster of the large, flat leaves. Crisp burn marks hiss, the leaves wilting under his touch.

“Joel, oh goodness!” the man cries in horror, “What happened? Did I do this to you? I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry, buddy, I’ll do better, I-” the man sputters profusely, afraid and ashamed. Corpse swallows it down, thick like a milkshake, and oh so sickly sweet. It vibrates through him, swirling like ink in water.

The next time comes later that evening. The man is in the room set up as an office, an impressive computer set up, an established backdrop, a microphone on a mini-boom stand. After spending an impressive amount of time fiddling with settings Corpse would deem as minute and insignificant, he presses a button that says _Start Streaming_.

“What is up, guys? It’s Sykkuno here,” the man introduces himself. Ah, Sykkuno, then, is his name. Corpse sits in the leather couch off to the side, staring at the ceiling and waiting for his opportunity. The man talks for _hours_ , but his laughter is warming to Corpse’s coldness.

He waits until Sykkuno ends the stream to strike. After hearing the heavy sigh of relief and the computer is in its shutdown process, Corpse takes a finger and flicks the washer that secures the microphone. He watches the washer bounces on the dark oak table and on to the slate grey carpet dejectedly, and looks to Sykkuno for a response. He seems to not have noticed. Corpse remembers humans being fatigued after long periods of mental strain, so that makes sense. More drastic, then.

He holds his hand flat, fingers taut, and slaps the microphone out of the stand.

Sykkuno reacts far more to this. The microphone topples against the table, headfirst. Sykkuno’s hands dive to catch it before it does, but he’s too slow, and ends up pushing it towards the computer screen. Human reflexes are a failing and archaic evolutionary trait in this century.

“Huh, that’s weird,” Sykkuno ponders, swinging around in the chair to look for the missing offending washer, “I’m certain that was on tight as possible before I started the stream.”

Corpse grunts, crossing his arms. “It _was_ ,” he absently mutters, as much as a voice built on growls can, and knows if he weren’t repressing his power that the walls would shake with his speech like usual. Start small, work up to that, though.

Sykkuno talks a lot for someone who lives alone, Corpse decides. He sings in the shower, he hums along to music Corpse can’t hear, he engages in one-sided conversation with his plants, he commentates his mediocre decisions.

Corpse may as well take advantage of that, right?

It’s late evening by now, the sun long since laid to rest beyond the horizon, it’s remaining rays dispersed, the hazy darkness of the sky sending tendrils of inky night in through the windows.

Sykkuno wanders through the house, footsteps unhurried and heavy, his hands aiming lower than the light switches are, a habit from his previous home, but it makes Corpse huff in laughter as his hands swat at empty drywall. After the house is consumed in darkness, Sykkuno makes his way to the bedroom, crawling under the covers face first, lying on his stomach under the weight of the duvet. Bimbus isn’t far behind, collar jingling as he leaps onto the bed and settles in the divot between Sykkuno’s knees, and the white fluff of Bimbus fades into the white fluff of the duvet quickly.

He lays still for a moment, his breathing even and deep, and Corpse can feel the fatigue that washes over the man as he watches, leant against the window, bathing in the moonlight. Sleep might have taken Sykkuno, too, were it not for the incessant bright light overhead. He flips the duvet away, one arm smacking the fabric like it is a hot stove element.

“Ah, dang it,” he mutters. “Sorry, Bimbus, I forgot the lights,” he apologises to the dog, already taken by sleep, immediately disturbed by his owner turning over to sit up.

Corpse flips his hand in the direction of the light switch, and it moves from the ON position to the OFF position, drenching the room in blackness. The gasp from Sykkuno is audible, and the apprehension is palpable and palatable. Corpse’s tongue, long and forked, wets his lips.

“What was that?” Sykkuno shrilly asks no one in particular, or maybe Bimbus. He immediately reaches for Bimbus and holds him against his chest. “I must have flicked it to the half-way mark, right? Yeah, that must have been it,” he reasons with himself.

For good measure, Corpse turns the lights back on. The fear settles in on Sykkuno like a well-tailored suit jacket, now. Sykkuno’s eyes are locked on the switch across the room, wide and afraid.

While his eyes are locked to the switch, Corpse flicks the lights off, on, off, solidifying the _weird_ and _unexplainable_. A fresh layer of anxiety builds on Sykkuno like a card house, ready to topple at the lightest gust. He’s too fearful to even speak, now. He white-knuckles the duvet since dragged up to his chest, hiding Bimbus beneath it. How knightly.

He leaves the switch alone, then. Sykkuno need only have enough fear to know something odd is going on, and to give Corpse his meal. Eventually, the adrenaline from the encounter fades from Sykkuno, leaving him more fatigued than before he headed to bed, and sleep takes him for a fitful rest. With both preliminary missions accomplished, Corpse leaves him well alone in his rest, bathing in the moonlight from his seat by the window.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been a long time since Corpse bothered to look at himself in a reflective surface, but the mirrors Sykkuno puts up make it more unavoidable than usual. It reinforces how unsightly Corpse is to humans. 
> 
> Sykkuno is the strongest energy source Corpse has encountered in centuries, and his reserves are overflowing.

It has been a long time since Corpse bothered to look at himself in a reflective surface. When the only person you let see you _is_ you, there is really no point in maintaining any appearance. Unfortunately, Sykkuno owns a few mirrors that hang from the walls in the hall, that surround his greenery, in an attempt to make the spaces look bigger, so it’s more unavoidable than it usually is.

Corpse’s skin is purpled with a mottling of bruise-like marks, covering more skin than that which is untouched. The right side of his face is stained a deep blue and purple, scaly skin pulled taut over bones and teeth. His mouth is a snarl, lips hidden behind the knife-sharp, shark-like teeth that stretch and mangle over waxy skin. Cheekbones carve angles like cliff-faces as they wrap from his temples to the strong point of his nose. His left eye is a glowing red like a traffic light, and zaps white and crackles when he uses his power stores. His right eye is covered in an empty white, visible veins of the eye bloodshot. A thin horn, reminiscent of a rabbit’s ear, raises from the thickened skin on his forehead above the bloodshot eye, kinked and curled both left and right, forward and backward. A second horn grows like a goat’s from further back on the other side of his head, red-tipped where it furls backwards like slicked-back hair.

Spurs jut from his forearms through the back of his elbow, hard keratin. His arms, longer than a human’s, extend into large palms with long black taloned nails. He holds himself with pride and like he owns any room he walks into, head tilted and looking down at anyone who holds his attention.

Corpse forgot how _un_ human he really looked. And while his appearance inspired fear and nightmares and fed his kind as a result, Sykkuno is the opposite.

Sykkuno is soft and fluffy-looking hair, kind eyes, and round cheeks that fill with colour when he nervously laughs. He sings and holds conversations with his plants when he waters them and narrates Bimbus’ movements with his own sound effects. He holds himself like he is afraid to take up too much space in his own home.

It reinforces how unsightly Corpse is to humans.

Corpse monitors Sykkuno in the following days. There is no reason to pull out all the stops. He has been fed more than enough by the light switch incident.

Sykkuno has a very well-established routine, considering he just moved. In Corpse’s experience, humans take several weeks to find their new normal routine once moving, but it seems like it only took Sykkuno as long as it took the movers to fit the fridge into the nook of the kitchen.

He gets up earlier than Corpse likes. His morning routine is fairly basic, but tending to his plants, greeting them and watering them, adds an extra hour to it. He sips coffee that is more sugar and milk than it is coffee while he checks emails, responds to messages, while the quiet static of the morning news lists off every bad thing that happened since the night prior with occasional tidbits of weather. Corpse watches with unimpressed interest, like a cat woken from sleep. From over Sykkuno’s shoulder, he reads email subject lines like _Meeting at 2 pm to discuss the contract_ and _Merchandise design drafts_. Corpse watches the bold bracketed number dwindle from close to 100 unread emails to less than four every morning while he taps his talons together or along the metal of the clips and chains attached to his clothing. For most people, reading and responding to so many emails would drain them and send them back to their beds. It is what Corpse came to expect with previous occupants, and it’s what he expected from Sykkuno too. But as the coffee in his cup drains, and the number dwindles, Sykkuno sits up straighter and his face shines brighter and his aura’s energy glows yellow and orange. It is like looking directly into the sun, but Corpse siphons from it like it’s a 5-course meal.

Positive emotions are just as filling, but nowhere near as fun or as satisfying, especially when he doesn’t have to work for it.

Sykkuno plays a lot more video games than other occupants of the home recently, too. From what Corpse gathers, he plays with friends and broadcasts to others while doing so. Corpse can see the small reflection of the webcam recording in the bottom left of Sykkuno’s second computer screen, so he steers clear of its view, even with the divider panel that sits snug behind Sykkuno. Some people on the internet are very perceptive. He spends that time sprawled out on the couch that sits perpendicular to the desk, his feet perched on the far armrest, tossing and catching an orb of conjured inky energy, listening to Sykkuno talk and learn what he can about the man through osmosis. He may as well learn about his energy source if he is going to live with it for the foreseeable future.

With how much energy Sykkuno gives him, Corpse becomes more comfortable. Usually, a demon saps any power they can from their surrounding environment by absorbing any heat they can from it. They retain power by not putting out any of their own. Sykkuno is the strongest energy source Corpse has encountered in centuries, though, so he doesn’t _have_ to. In fact, his reserves are overflowing, and while his hold can expand like a human’s stomach does during eating contests, he can only store so much.

With Sykkuno’s high energy and high responsiveness, Corpse can let himself be _comfortable_ instead of teeth-chatteringly cold. He, instead, bleeds heat like a walking furnace with no identifiable source to onlookers. Blue flames lick from his fingertips, wrapping around the skin of his wrist and dancing over the point of his elbow. The metal attachments on his attire spark a terrifying red and are malleable to the touch where he touches them. His hair curls from the dehydration of heat damage, the curls bouncing in the soft breeze but always finding their home when it dies down.

Sykkuno blames the morning sun that beats on the eastern side of the house, where the office room happens to be, and turns down the thermostat a few more degrees to try to compensate. In the afternoon, he blames the midday sun that warmed the tin roof of the home and continues to turn down the thermostat. Corpse releases more, little by little, to compensate, lying listlessly in the sunrays that invite themselves in through the open window, the lattice of the security screen painting a chain of shadows across his skin.

After a day or so of lying next to the potted plants in the living space and leaning against the ones that litter the kitchen windows, Corpse notices the leaves wilt from where his flames brush too close. Sykkuno notices, too, and moves them into more shaded spots, apologising for not being cautious enough. Corpse feels a little nauseous but chalks it up to the overflowing energy and the exertion of releasing his power continuously, rather than saving the scraps like he became accustomed to.

Corpse sits on a vacant chair in the dining space while Sykkuno watches a show on Netflix late one evening. He is becoming invested in the plot – a con man conned into becoming a con man under another, conning the genuine evildoers of the wealthy world. A genuine justice being served. As he watches the credits begin to roll, he stands from his space and moves toward the couch and sofa, both a deep, well-loved grey leather. Sykkuno lays across the three-seater couch, curled up on his side, head pillowed on a throw pillow. Corpse breathes tired sigh and flops himself over the armrest of the single-seat recliner with an audible thump.

Audible thump?

Ah, Sykkuno is locked on to Corpse’s crotch, or at least the thing behind it – the couch cushion which is visibly indented from his landing. Sykkuno’s eyes are wide in confusion, targeted on the couch cushion while his head still faces the television, like he is afraid if he acknowledges it too far the evidence will dissipate. His eyes are as wide as his muscles allow, and Corpse watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows against the lump in his throat. He smacks his lips, his tongue darting out to wet the skin.

Corpse did _not_ intend for this to happen, but with how much power Sykkuno gives him, it’s hard to hold it _back_. He has been so hungry for so long, never satiated, and now he has got so much that it’s overflowing his cup. There’s no point removing the evidence now, though.

“H-hello,” Sykkuno stutters out, “Is someone here?”

Corpse remains, unmoving from his spot, and rests his head on the elbow pressed into the creased armrest, watching, waiting, absorbing the adrenaline that raises from Sykkuno’s skin like heat off tarmac in the summer. The smirk on his face lifts his lips in a curled intrigue, the horn on his forehead kinking to the left with his interest in where Sykkuno’s reaction will take him. After several moments of a lack of visible response to Sykkuno, he speaks once more.

“Well, I can see something, so I will assume you are choosing not to, or are not able to, tell me you are here,” Sykkuno speaks, voice barely wavering, speaking with as much confidence as he can muster in the face of the ‘unexplainable’. “I hope you like this anime, but tell me if you don’t,” he tacks on, and after a pause, finishes: “…somehow.”

Corpse does like this anime, so he chooses to stay quiet, chewing on the cud of Sykkuno’s energy while he chews on the thought of ruining people who benefit on the pain of others. Maybe Corpse is on the wrong career path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the anime is Great Pretender in case you were curious. 
> 
> no Bimbus this chapter :( 
> 
> thank you for the comments on the last chapter!! they feed the author and make it worth putting pen to paper (or, i guess, fingers to keys).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corpse is having a rough day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter depicts chronic pain and depression from the mindset of the person. 
> 
> If you think it's not a good thing for you to read, skip to "Sykkuno continues his usual routine..."

Corpse is having a rough day.

Usually, the electricity under his skin crackles and dances and he thrives on it, chews it like a heavy piece of marinated meat, sucks the juices dry and extracts its most pure form. The feeling of a lifeforce beneath his skin is exhilarating – less like a frog to water, more a drug addict to their fix. He can survive without it, but he isn’t truly _living_ without it.

That’s not the case today, though.

Today the electricity makes him feel like a deer in headlights. It feels like a hundred unwelcome hands are caressing his skin with each slight drift of breeze. He is tripping on his toes like the floor is uneven all of a sudden, it feels like an unseen servant is holding him up by a hand around his throat alone. The brush of his hair on the skin of his neck and face feels like thousands of unwelcome crawlers are making their way across the panes of flesh. His chest is tight and painful like a hound has curled up to nap on his ribs, and he is pinned in place. His skeleton feels like every joint has become disconnected, an inch of space between every bone where there normally is none. His lungs cannot get enough air no matter how many times he does a reset sigh.

Despite the literal walking, talking energy source ten feet away, it feels like he can’t muster enough strength to do more than lol against the wall. Every movement feels like it’s draining exponentially more power than usual, and yet he knows it isn’t. Corpse feels like he’s trying to fit more and more emotions and thoughts and feelings into an over-stuffed cotton bag, the seams tearing but the bag intact, just unusable for the most part. As a result, Corpse is in a foul mood, staring holes at whatever his eyes catch on to, brows low and pressed flat, a furrow between them, his most forward horn lying limp down the curve of his cheek instead of its usual kinked and standing proud position.

The birds in the trees outside chirp merrily and the shrill call feels like a screwdriver in Corpse’s ear canal. The sunlight the drifts in the window burns at his skin, and he can hear the hiss of it as it dehydrates, baking in the rays. He can feel the steam against the dark downy fine body hair as it rises into the arid air. The hairs singe, curling up, a rancid ashy aroma invading his senses. He rubs his knuckles against his eyelids, talons of his fingertips pressing sharp little v marks into the heel of his palms, and watches the explosion of his self-made star system behind his eyes come alight and dim. He can feel time passing as he absorbs the coolness from his curled-up position against the wall: he can see the glaring reflection of the sunlight trekking its path across the floorboards, can hear the rubber of tyres on the pavement outside passing by, can hear the leaves on the plants around him unfurling and extending as they flourish and grow from Sykkuno’s devotion.

Sykkuno continues his usual routine around him, and Corpse lets him do so uninterrupted. Sykkuno waters his plants, greeting each of them as he goes, apologizing when brushing their leaves aside to water them at the base, or misting the leaves. He serenades the vibrant shining green of Joel and Barbara and Lydia, his voice soft travels in waves along the veins of the leaves like sunlight reflecting on water, sparkling with its purity. He trims decaying leaves away from healthy plant matter and tells the plant it is for their overall wellbeing.

He wipes the boogers from Bimbus’ eyes and brushes his fur. He takes a baby wipe and carefully holds Bimbus’ snout in his thumb and index finger, then brushes the goop from the corners of his eyes. He takes a curved rake-looking comb and brushes it through the fur on his feet and legs, then face and head, and finally his body, all the while Bimbus lies contentedly, tail wagging and slapping against the floor. When he’s done, he collects all of Bimbus’ toys from around the house. He finds a rubber teething bone, long since served its purpose, obviously, under the couch in the living room, and places it at Bimbus’ feet. He finds a cotton plushie of a fish, clearly a cat toy, in the kitchen, and places it by his tummy. He finds a teddy bear in the office and props it behind his head. This process continues, toys piling up around Bimbus until the only part of him that is exposed is his snout and wagging tail.

He takes a feather duster, white and as fluffy as Bimbus, and dances it back and forth on the books and gap filler vases and art pieces on the tall bookcases of the office. He wipes down the kitchen counters and fills up the water pots in the propagating cuttings that line the window. He washes the glass panes of the windows and doors, the sunlight’s reflection on the polished floorboards crisper than ever. His happiness and sense of accomplishment bleed like ink in water into the air around him, and Corpse can nearly see the flowers flowing from his aura. He takes the vacuum out, plugging the socket into the wall – and _that_ is where Corpse draws the line.

Sykkuno uses his sock-clad foot to press the on switch on the vacuum. The engine whirrs to life, filling the home and Corpse’s mind with the grating high pitched drone of the filters. Corpse is curled up against the wall, in a relaxed fetal position, his arms crossed over his knees, his head pillowed in his arms. From his spot against the wall, he can see where the socket is connected. As the piercing shrill continues, he growls and raises the arm furthest from the wall and throw it up across his body. He clenches his fist tightly and yanks it back behind him. Across the room, the plug is reefed away from the wall, curling back on itself. Corpse despondently watches it bounce to its resting place, then weaves his arm back into position, returning to his homeostasis of the day.

Sykkuno puts his hands on his hips, his index fingers nudging under the hem of his shirt, resting on the waistband of his pants. He cocks his head, looking at the vacuum, a line of confusion painting itself in the space between his eyebrows. After pressing the power button three times in succession, a brief pause in between to monitor for changes, Sykkuno’s eyes follow the trail of the power cord.

“Huh,” he questions to no one in particular, “I thought I plugged that in.”

Sykkuno picks up the cord once more and tugs it back towards the power point. As he approaches the point at the wall and bends at the waist towards the point, Corpse growls, his jaw clenched, his elongated teeth pressing painfully against the skin around his mouth. His arm flies up once more, his energy reaching out, and the cord is wrenched from Sykkuno’s hand. An “Oops!” falls from his mouth as it happens, like he just walked into a wall on accident, rather than something unseen forcefully wrenched a cord from his hand. The cord falls to the floor, whipped back on itself once more.

Sykkuno looks to his hand, empty, cord missing from his grasp. The furrow of his brow deepens, and his mouth curls in confusion. His nose scrunches at the sides, and Corpse can’t help but compare his confusion to the intrigued head tilt Bimbus does when Sykkuno asks him a question.

Corpse looks to the cord where it lies, flopped on itself like it’s accepted its fate. There’s a darkened spot about a handspan from the plug end where Corpse’s power wrapped around it and singed the plastic. It wraps around the cable like the chokehold Corpse had on it, mangling its form, causing it to become kinked and sticky from being melted.

That was probably overkill.

Sykkuno reaches out to pick up the cord once more, but his hand stops mid-reach. The woody and floral energy that wafts from Sykkuno dulls where a grey and mud root fester of his nervousness begins to shine through. Instead, he retracts his outstretched hand and wipes his clammy palms on the fabric of his shorts before dropping into a crouch beside the cord.

“I-I guess that s-someone,” he stutters, then swallowing audibly, “someone doesn’t want me to vacuum right now, huh?”

His words are spoken directly to the cord as if it will answer him in conversation.

For good measure, Corpse flicks his wrist and nudges the cord a few inches further from Sykkuno. It _does_ answer him in conversation.

Sykkuno falls backwards in shock, his hands too slow to catch him, his bottom knocking an “Ah!” from his chest.

“O-okay, I get it, I won’t vacuum today,” Sykkuno concedes hurridly. He adjusts his sitting position, mirroring Corpse’s own, unassisted by the wall. Sykkuno wraps one arm around a knee, resting his chin on the other, staring forlornly at the melted plastic like it will tell him the secrets of the world. Or, at least the house.

“Is it too new?” Sykkuno wonders aloud, “Are you telling me to use a broom instead?”

Corpse tips his head back and lets it thud against the drywall. He gets a single huff of laughter drip from his lips. The weight in his arms rescinds, the shackled weights dropping like Sisyphus letting the boulder free, though the weight sitting on his chest and heart remains, like Atlas’s guilt.

Huh, that’s new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NUTMEG don't project onto ur charas  
> no
> 
> Please remember that I am a human, not a dancing monkey. I do this in my severely limited spare time for _my_ enjoyment and outlet.
> 
> I appreciate your comments and kind words. Correlation doesn't always equal causation, but it does for comments to new content.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun ebbs and flows into the days one after another. With each day, Corpse takes small steps in scaring Sykkuno. Or, well. _Scaring_ isn’t the right word.
> 
> And Sykkuno practices bass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for knife-related cooking injury, a tiny mention of blood, and general food mentions.

The sun ebbs and flows into the days one after another. With each day, Corpse takes small steps in scaring Sykkuno.

Or, well. _Scaring_ isn’t the right word. It’s more startling.

Like when Sykkuno is flitting about in the kitchen, preparing dinner for himself. He’s got two burners going with an assortment of vegetables in one pan and rice in a pot set diagonal from one another. He hasn’t stirred either yet, but they’re starting to crisp up, and not in the way you want from rice. Sykkuno hasn’t noticed, still cutting more vegetables as he hums along to the static sound of music that bounces in the air.

Corpse opens the utensils drawer with a sharp tug, jostling the silverware audibly. Dinner saved, he figures.

It startles Sykkuno, who happens to be holding a _very_ sharp knife. His aura changes like blanched vegetables in an ice bath, snapping from a content grassy green and optimistic yellow, the sprouts of flowers extending off his shoulders, to an alarmed blood red. Corpse’s tongue wets his sharpened fangs and lips in anticipation.

“Ah!” Sykkuno squeaks reflexively. With those reflexes, the knife slips on the skin of the green bell pepper, and dashes along the flesh of his index fingertip, “-Ow!”

And that fearful, shocked, emotion-driven aura is instantly replaced with one of logic and reason to address his injury before his feelings. Sykkuno drops the knife and turns on his heel to go to the bathroom, where Corpse watched him unpack a first aid kit during his first few days here.

Corpse scuffs his foot along the tiled floor of the kitchen, his hands lying listless at his sides. The injury isn’t shocking to Corpse. Usually, his hauntings and feedings have to be far more physical to reach the level of emotional response that Sykkuno gives him. He’s done far worse to people _directly._ And this was an incidental indirect outcome. Really, he’s seen worse from a papercut, let alone a kitchen injury, but it still settles with a sinking feeling in his gut as he listens to Sykkuno dig around in the bathroom through his supplies one-handed. Sykkuno sucks on the side of his injured index finger as he goes, his lips plump around the lithe curve of his finger, the red tinting the creases in his lips. Dinner is forgotten for first aid, even being as comparatively small as the injury is.

Corpse, in his… _guilt_ grasps the burner switch and twists them to the off position. His grip is tight enough to leave two tiny indents in the plastic where the tips of his talon-like nails embedded themselves.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his mouth, like a bad taste. His tongue swipes at the saliva, along his teeth, trying to wipe it away to no avail. It feels like uncooked flour: fuzzy and unrelenting in it’s assault on his senses. His oesophagus constricts and relaxes over and over, the foreign and processing wave of emotion a lot for a body that _feeds on emotion_ to process.

When Sykkuno returns, his gaze sticks to the opened drawer, even as he moves past it to the stove, rice and vegetables beyond salvageable. With thoughtful and narrowed eyes and a thoughtful hum, his aura begins to bleed shades of purple – intuition and spirituality.

He pretends to not notice, his own aura shifting from the drab grey of a storm cloud to a concerning shade of red, tendrils snaking through and piercing, a mandala image of the new scaffold of emotion unlocked.

Sykkuno has a bass guitar that lives in his office. He toys at it for an hour or so per day, plucking the strings and practising his fret positions. He connects it to the amp beside his desk, but keeps the volume low on both the bass and amp. Corpse sits opposite him, watching him develop muscle memory and the fine motor agility controls that stringed instruments require. He’s getting better at it – Corpse can see his confidence building slowly, and his posture has gone from a tight coil to be able to see where his fingers sit on the neck to a far more upright one like he has when he streams.

Corpse spends about forty minutes each time watching the tendons in the back of Sykkuno’s hands tug and pull at his fingers, the veins of his hands wrapping and warping around the muscle and bones underneath. The more dexterous they’re becoming, the more the definition in them is developing. The shape of his wrists are evolving, too – they’re more square than before, with sharper angles around the point of his ulnar. The tendons and muscle mass on his right hand have built up, while the left has become more slender and toned. His fingers are developing callouses, the skin red and raw by the time he calls it quits.

He begins to hit a wall after the forty-minute mark, though, and Corpse could set a watch by how consistently that wall hits. He goes from happy, excited, and enthusiastic to learn, to a frustrated scribble. As the frustration grows, he slips up and makes mistakes more, which only stokes the fire of frustration more. Anger and frustration can sustain Corpse, but they’re not _fun_ , and are ultimately don’t make for a sustainable food source, so there’s no point when he has an energy source as powerful as Sykkuno.

That’s what he justifies it as, at least.

To stop that wall from hitting, Corpse keeps tabs on the hands of the clock on the bookshelf, watching them circle over themselves, until the time tells him Sykkuno is about to hit it. At the very first sign of frustration, a garbled sigh of dissatisfaction, Corpse flicks his wrist in the air, dragging his index finger down the length of his thumb as he does. He watches the settings on the amp – treble, bass, volume – all snap to maximum volume, filling the air with a shrill of residual sparking static and ruminant vibrations of the last note Sykkuno plucked with his middle finger.

Sykkuno jolts at the sudden change in noise, and his head snaps to the amp. His confusion and perturbment is palpable on Corpse’s tongue, dense and thick like raw honey. He listlessly watches Sykkuno struggle to adjust the instrument on his lap while reaching for the amp to fix the issue. No matter what he does or how many times he adjusts the knobs, Corpse flicks his wrist to bring them back up to their maximum over and over, waiting for Sykkuno to tire himself out and resolve the situation by unplugging the amp entirely.

Frustration with the things around you is far more quickly resolved than frustration with yourself, Corpse finds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i miss my bass.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demons _hurt_ people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves spooky scary torment typical of ghosts/demons, but no physical harm (hence no "graphic violence" tags) and discussions of guilt.

These new emotions Corpse has unlocked within himself are tedious, fickle, petty things to work through. 

It’s not that he’s _never_ _felt_ guilt before. It’s just that he hasn’t felt it in such a long time.

When you’re a demon, you don’t  _ feel  _ guilt. You hurt people. You hurt them to evoke strong enough emotions to feed and sustain you. It’s the same principle as a lion killing the unlucky zebra in its path.

Humans rarely believe what they see and explain away as much as they can to what little of science they know. The door opening without their eyes seeing it be touched was just the wind, not unseen hands pushing it. The drawer opening is the wheels being misaligned, not being tugged open by taloned fingers. The photo frame that shattered to the floor did so because it wasn’t sitting securely on the top of the cabinet, not because it was thrown by someone. So, in order to invoke an emotionally charged reaction, demons physically interact with humans, usually by way of a scrape of talons or teeth, or a too-tight gripped limb. Humans react a  _ lot _ to being hurt, which serves up a delicious meal for the tar-pit within a demon’s soul.

Demons  _ hurt _ people for  _ food _ and for  _ fun _ . 

But Sykkuno is different. He’s so emotionally charged all of the time, his reactions over the top and painfully genuine, that Corpse doesn’t  _ have _ to hurt him - he can just make suggestions that someone-- no, some _ thing _ is present in the house, and Sykkuno serves a 5-course family holiday roast dinner, a banquet to choose from. 

So why did hurting him  _ indirectly _ and on  _ accident _ make him feel so bad?

For fuck’s sake, he’s an  _ all-powerful being _ who can snap the neck of these “apex predators” with the flex of his hand in the air. He doesn’t need to feel  _ guilt _ for asserting his place in the world and finding his next meal. He doesn’t need to feel  _ shame _ when he damages Sykkuno’s plants or home when he startles him. He’s been alive and reaping havoc since Sykkuno’s blood-line started - his life is a drop in the bucket compared to the years Corpse has lived through.

He’s a mangled, mottled body made of hard, chipped keratin and scaled tough skin. He has razor-sharp fangs that jut at uneven angles and press into the elastic flesh of his mouth, and a tongue that unfurls far longer than it should, split and independently controlled.  _ Guilt _ isn’t something he is weak to. 

After unpacking, dissecting, rebuilding, and repacking his thoughts, Corpse decides his course of action.

He’s a  _ demon _ . Demons hurt people. 

Sykkuno is in his office when Corpse makes up his mind. Bimbus, curled up on the listlessly discarded grey threadbare throw blanket on the floor, doesn’t react to Corpse entering his vision when he hovers in the doorway. From what Corpse can see on the computer, Sykkuno is streaming again. A first-person game of some kind takes up most of his obscenely wide monitor, a window of rushing-by messages from his viewers set off to the right side.

He feels the power crackle under his fingertips, arching in dancing waves between finger and palm, jolting off in search of something to  _ harm, hinder, hurt _ . He feels the hair on his head stand on end, dark curls lengthening into frazzled straight pins, restricted only by the horns pressed by his scalp. The tendrils of dark void, absorbing of all light, sneak along the floor and up the walls like shadows without a source, swallowing all their wriggling suction touches. 

Bimbus looks up, like a tendril touched him from across the room where they slap and sneak along the wall. He stands and curls into as much of a menacing pose as he can, his lips peeling back to let out a terrifying yip.

Sykkuno snaps his head to the fluff, concern in his usually soft features. "What's wrong, Bimbus?" he asks, like he is expecting the canine to expose the secrets of the world to him. 

Bimbus growls, low and long, before yapping twice more directly at Corpse. His tiny body is shaking, fear comes like a tsunami side to his yips. Sykkuno tugs the earphones attached by their cord out from his ears, the earpieces clattering against the desk. He twists in his chair to face him directly, hands reaching for him as he leans away and off the wheeled office chair a little closer to Bimbus’ body, vibrating with the ferocity of his shaking. 

"Hey, buddy, what's wrong?" Sykkuno murmurs to him, stroking one hand down the length of his back. It sounds like he's calming a wild animal. Bimbus is about as unpredictable as a wild animal with the way he is acting, though. He had barked once at Corpse the first time they met and has since ignored his presence for the most part, uninterested with his new roommate. 

Corpse looks to the computer, stream still active, a reflection of Sykkuno’s seat now distinctly lacking said Sykkuno. By the right side of the screen, question marks fly by. Witnesses and evidence. Fix that first. 

Corpse looks to the chunky yellow cable that feeds from the computer tower to the router modem. The router-modem is fed by a wall ethernet port and a power port connected to the wall. Corpse flicks a finger, an arching bolt ripping the plug from the socket, instantly dropping the connection and evidence. Sykkuno, despite his attention being focused on Bimbus’ outburst, looks to the source of the noise, a startled garbled sound falling from his lips. 

“D-dang, I must have caught it with my foot,” he mutters,  _ tsk _ -ing himself while still calming Bimbus. 

Humans will do anything to explain away the things they don’t understand.

Corpse takes a step into the room, tendrils moving in tandem like the shadows he cast are moving with him, though these shadows have a life of their own. Bimbus does not stand for this, so he takes a few meagre little trots to stomp his feet down directly between Corpse and Sykkuno, a brave little warrior ready to defend his pack leader. He taps his right foot once, twice, and growls until it grows into a snarl. 

“Bimbus,  _ no _ ” Corpse growls in return, lips catching on his fangs, elongated in his unleashed power, “ _ out _ ,” he orders. Bimbus visually jolts at the order, but doesn’t give up his fight. His lips hold in a snarl, teeth exposed and snapping in his tiny head. 

Power flows off his body like water on a duck’s back, dripping oily black into the void the tendrils rise from. Like a tap, Corpse releases it entirely, and like a tap, the pressure of the release overwhelms where the build-up hits. The lights surge and die down, flickering as the waves rush by. The door slams further back, smacking against the stopper and bouncing off the wall. The viney plant that spreads across the bookcase curls its leaves, withering under the acidity of the energy that snarls back at Bimbus. Distantly, like he’s buried in a cave system, a squeak of distress comes from Sykkuno, a break in his voice jolting the pitch.  _ Good _ . Sykkuno follows the flow of the withering leaves in reverse and looks to the doorframe. 

Corpse steps closer to Bimbus, glaring down at the vibrating tiny little body that would phase through Corpse if he truly came at him. Corpse isn’t inexperienced enough to let a  _ domesticated walking accessory _ of a dog touch him. Bimbus recoils, his fight dying as Corpse’s determination grows. Corpse steps around him and crouches, resting his elbows on his knees. He grips the blanket tight with his left fist. It’s polyester, at least in part, he assesses. He then raises his right hand in the air, his fingers spread, his taloned nails shining. He flexes the talons taut, clicking the joints and focusing the heat radiating from the skin over his body to throw through his fingers. The flesh turns red like an iron poker, steam rising into the air. Sykkuno’s ears twitch at the noise of sizzling, a long-since extinct vestigial trait in humans rearing its head in an attempt to keep him alive. His eyes focus on the space near him, pupils dilating as the adrenaline shoots through him like ice in his veins. Corpse strikes the blanket, like a hot knife through butter. He watches the fabric shred and singe, four distinct lines tearing and melting the fibres with each inch. The shriek of  _ pure, unbridled terror _ is thick like a wagyu steak, dripping with the juice of its violence, stifled by a hand. 

Corpse feels his lips twist into a curled smirk.  _ Good _ . He lifts his eyes to look at Sykkuno’s face to take in the high-quality satisfaction-dripping meal he’s served up and slice himself off a piece to ingest. His jaw unhinges and his tongue unfurls, forks of the tip shaking in anticipation. 

Sykkuno’s forehead is creased, his eyebrows are low and angled tight. His big brown eyes are squeezed closed, and his cheeks are streaked with wet where they peak out from the hand cupped over his mouth that dampens his whimpers.

Sykkuno is crying. 

Oh no. 

Corpse drops his grip on the blanket. He closes his mouth. 

Oh fuck. 

He stands back up from his crouch, knees clicking audibly at the speed he jolts away. He trips backward against the carpeted floor, tripping on nothing in particular except his own shock. His back cracks against the bookcase and his palms catch himself on the bulk of the shelf that fits in the snug small of his spine. The figures and books jostling before quickly returning to their still stasis. Sykkuno hiccups at the noise, but his eyes are still closed. Corpse swallows, tongue thick and dry in his mouth. His palms, quickly becoming clammy and slick, slip on their grip, talons digging into the wood and leaving exposed, un-varnished claw marks.

Out.

He needs out.  


He nods to himself, frantic, and turns on his heel to face the door. His feet take him from the room, through the hall, and out of the house, leaving Bimbus to continue to growl in harmony with Sykkuno’s muffled sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corpse wanders foreign halls, attempting petty hauntings, but he feels no satisfaction, no drive. He can see his aura is listless and dragging, heavy like a velvet cape. He doesn’t want to go back. Sykkuno should be horrified of him, and most people would have moved out after the experience Corpse put him through. Even if he hasn’t left, Bimbus will certainly hate him, the little supernatural-reading dog. The plants are probably thriving without his constant furnace-heat withering their leaves. 
> 
> But he goes back anyway.

Corpse wanders, lost and confused. He returns to old - _very_ old - stomping grounds, shooing the spirits that have since moved into the corners of his domain from the spiderwebs that lace the buildings. It doesn’t take much - a snarl of his too-wide mouth, the furnace of his power setting flames of blue and purple from his skin, and the spirits flee like a human meeting them face to face. Families with small children litter stand-alone homes and apartment buildings nearby. Children are always more willing to see what lurks in the shadows. 

He doesn’t feed, but he does cause terror.

A small child with long blonde ringlets and freckles that show too much sun exposure squeals as she runs down the hall of her home, her steps unbalanced and joy-filled. She couldn’t be more than three or four years old, though the rate of aging humans experience hasn’t been something Corpse has considered for a long time. He remains pressed in the corner at the end of the hall, watching her happiness burble out in laughter. She squats, collecting a well-loved plush doll. While she’s looking away from Corpse, he allows some of his power to boil over, becoming a dark shadow in and of himself, silhouetting him, tendrils of energy snaking out like vines of a tree looking for sunlight. This is much more menacing than flora seeking photosynthesis, though. His tendrils are seeking _pain_ and _distress_ and _fear._ The child stops laughing, dropping the doll instantly. She raises her head to look him dead in his eyes, one of empty white, the other of fire and blood. Corpse smiles, the corners of his mouth opening ear to ear, unhinging like a snake, and crouches to her level. 

“Hello, little one,” his voice, disembodied and echoing from everywhere and nowhere all at once, verberates through her skull. Her eyes well with tears, her aura withering the flowers that bloomed, now black hashes and bloodied water. 

It feels worthless. Hollow.

He tries again, this time in an apartment building. The carpeted halls are sleet grey, the walls dull red, and the sconces on the wall throw cold light. The indoor plants are withered and uncared for. The windows look out to narrow alleyways with little sunlight and no greenery. He wanders until he finds someone hunched over a computer with three unreasonably large monitors connected, all a flurry of numbers and graphs that are meaningless to Corpse. The person has an unkempt beard, but the hair on their scalp is thinning. Their aura is grey; their mental health is failing, their physical health is failing, their career is failing. It’s no wonder their posture reads like a startled cat when Corpse presses a divot into the carpet by the desk. 

Their life is hard enough without him intervening. 

Corpse continues for several days, wandering halls and attempting petty hauntings, but he feels no satisfaction, no drive. He can see his aura is listless and dragging, heavy like a velvet cape. He doesn’t _want_ to go back. Sykkuno should be horrified of him, and most people would have moved out after the experience Corpse put him through. Even if he hasn’t left, Bimbus will certainly hate him, the little supernatural-reading dog. The plants are probably thriving without his constant furnace-heat withering their leaves. 

But he goes back anyway.

He’s surprised when he returns back to the home and sees the porch still littered with plants. They seem similar to how they looked before Corpse’s incident if a touch sadder. Corpse looks closer, trepidation holding his entry, and sees the soil on the plants is a lot drier than Sykkuno usually allows. 

Corpse discards the intrusive thought of watering the plants. He didn’t come back to be a house-maid. 

When he enters the home, he hears Sykkuno’s laughter distantly in the home, likely sourced from the office. His voice dances off the walls in the hall and siphons directly to Corpse’s ears, and he sighs at the sound, melodic and soothing. His shoulders lower from their hitched up position by his ears, both in relaxation and in shame. He _hurt_ Sykkuno. Maybe not physically, but he hurt Sykkuno. 

Corpse hears the pitter-patter of Bimbus’ claws on the floor beckoning closer to him, coming to greet him at the door like all dogs are wont to do. He tries to make himself look non-threatening: he hides his teeth, retracts his talons, curls a little in on himself to appear less dominant. He still hears the tip taps slow when Bimbus gets a waft of Corpse’s scent: the rain after a forest fire. As he rounds the corner and sees Corpse, he raises one paw in a point, letting out a low growl through a sharp snarl. Corpse sighs, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. 

“I’m sorry, Bimbus,” Corpse concedes, trying to hit a higher pitch than usual so the dog knows he’s trying to be kind. Corpse drops to a crouch, getting closer to Bimbus’ height. Of course Bimbus is hesitant - the last time he saw Corpse, Corpse terrorised him and his owner. He stays there, crouched, until Bimbus realises he isn’t going to move. Corpse breathes in slow and long, listening to the far off sound of Sykkuno talking to people, laughing, and enjoying himself. Corpse is _calm_ for the first time in _days_ , even if the shame feels like a ball and chain tied to his throat.

He lets that show in his aura. He lets the weeds grow and flowers bloom on his shoulders, despite the tickling pain it gives him to feel them for the first time in a very, very long time. Demons should be scary and off-putting, not pretty and inviting. But he is trying. Especially when it makes Bimbus come closer. He’s hesitant, but it’s progress. Eventually, he gets close enough to smell Corpse’s hand, sniffing the iron and acrid ash of his scent. He pulses power into his arm and phases his hand to be more wholly in the plane, curling his fingers to scratch Bimbus’ chin where he sniffs Corpse’s palm. He’s uncertain still, but it’s better than Corpse had anticipated.

“Think Sykkuno will give me amnesty too?” he asks, like the canine will expose the secret to Sykkuno’s forgiveness. Corpse rises to his feet, which was obviously far too sudden, startling Bimbus away from him. The red and orange waves off Bimbus are interlaced with violets and purples and blues to make a photogenic beachside sunset, but Corpse knows he’s made enough progress for now - if he tries much more, he’ll end up reverting the progress already made. 

He drifts to the sound of Sykkuno’s voice, like a cartoon character following the scent of a meal, calm and serene on the surface despite the tension he holds in his shoulders. As he comes closer to the source, his desire to continue to hone in heightens, along with his trepidation and want to flee. Sykkuno’s voice becomes clearer, crisper as he rounds the corner to the office space, an endless stream of happy burbling at things happening in-game with his friends and with his viewers. It’s _nice_ . Sykkuno has been such a ball of happiness unlike any he’s encountered in such a long time, and Corpse went and purposefully unbalanced that, and then, what, felt _guilty_ for doing so? Felt _shame_ for hurting him? 

Corpse scuffs his foot on the edge of the carpet in annoyance at himself. He’s better than these emotions, but also better at choosing prey than this. 

Sykkuno’s voice stops, cut off, and Corpse watches the line of his body suddenly turn rigid. He sees the aura around him bleed from its yellow and green hue to one tinged with blue, like a reversed landscape, as he reads the energy of the room. 

The energy _Corpse_ is putting out, the sickly grey and mottled purple of his shadowed tendrils lurking deep and distant.

Corpse curses under his breath and restrains himself, burying the tendrils of power into a storage bucket in his mindscape, hiding the unsightly energy from the read on the room. Corpse waits on an aborted breath, but after controlling his power levels, steps towards the couch by Sykkuno’s desk, checking with every step that Sykkuno’s body language does not increase in alertness. Corpse rests a palm on the arm of the couch and slowly, slowly lowers himself to be seated on it. 

After several moments, Corpse’s breath tight and tense, Sykkuno returns to normal to his stream. He blames his pause on thinking he’d heard someone at the door and got lost in his thoughts trying to remember what he ordered that was being delivered today. He laughs off the extended pregnant pause, his right hand covering the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Corpse did that to him. 

He needs to apologise. He needs Sykkuno to know it was a mistake. Demons are horrible, nightmarish creatures, and Corpse was exactly that to Sykkuno, a man who did not deserve to be wronged so harshly. Corpse could’ve chosen other routes to make a meal - he had been up until that point. 

Corpse lounges there, making himself comfortable as Sykkuno relaxes. He rotates to lie on the couch like a Freudian psychological assessment, both legs on the other cushion, head pillowed on the armrest. Sykkuno’s cheerful voice lulls him into a place between dozing and waking. It's like lying in the cool breeze on a summer's day, like the brush of soft grass between toes.

He lurks, then. He does not feed on Sykkuno’s energy. He can't. Sykkuno bleeds the entire spectrum of emotion, all so intense his aura is opaque, but Corpse _can't_ feed off of it. He doesn't deserve to. 

Sykkuno does everything with more trepidation. He is warier of using his knives in the kitchen. He is more hesitant to round the corners of the house. He is more tentative to turn off the lights at night. His aura has a constant red undertone. His underlying fear taints the green and yellows of his regular hues, and his awareness of the _something_ tinges it with purple blooms. Corpse watches from a distance and ignores the way Bimbus stands between them, pretending he isn’t there while being a blockade between Corpse and Sykkuno. He watches the violet tinge linger even as the strength of the red hue dies down, fading into daisies and baby breath flowers on his shoulders.

Sykkuno is also narrating his movements and processes more. At first, Corpse wonders if he’s streaming when he’s cooking before he realises he can’t feel the deep-rooted hum of the computer electronics in this room, only the assorted kitchen appliances that ring a tinny tune. Sykkuno talks through his cooking: he tells the paintings on the walls about the necessary internal temperature for cooking pork, the hand towel about how humidity in the air or altitude changes the boiling temperature of water, the condiments in the fridge about the best way to keep leafy greens fresh. Corpse hums affirmingly to it all, absorbing and listening, the weight of his iniquity festering like an infected wound. For a demon, your own rotting emotions _are_ an infected, burbling, leaking wound. 

He takes the time to watch and map Sykkuno’s patterns of behaviour a little more rigidly than he had before. Of a morning, he wakes to Bimbus nuzzling under his arm. They lie there together, quiet and content, Sykkuno’s bare chest pressing the white fluff of Bimbus’ fur into the duvet, cradling the dog in his arms. Eventually, he leaves the bedroom to drag his feet to the office, turning on the computer and letting his startup script run updates and open his frequented programs of game stores and launchers, his emails, and a handful of social media platforms. While it loads, he rubs the sleep from his eyes and totters to the kitchen. 

Sykkuno’s hands, soft but bracketed by the firm forming calluses on his fingers, turn on the coffee percolator. The groan of the water siphoning and heating, a rhythmic _thworp, thworp, thworp, hiss_ as it steams, is the only noise in the quiet morning beside the song of birds who praise the sky for the light once again. The machine sends steam into the room, dancing in the sunlight, wrapping over itself, around itself, a waltz of vapour. Corpse leans on the counter with one elbow, watching with disinterest, and waves his hand through it, directing the steam this way and that, twirling it through the tips of his fingers. It’s warm. It always is. He feels the steam bubble his flesh, reddening and swelling it. The marks will be gone in a few moments, but it grounds him to see them nonetheless. As Corpse’s fingers perform pirouettes with the steam, Sykkuno leans against the countertop, scribbling on paper in a notepad, writing a to-do list for himself of the day. It’s simple, daily chores, but Sykkuno does it every morning. After a few moments, Sykkuno pulls a mug from the dish drainer, the clinking of ceramic knocking against china and glass a lived-in noise, and pours a cup of the dark brew into the cup. He _always_ puts too much sugar in the mug _._

He sips at his coffee, waiting for the brew to cool to a comfortable temperature while he rounds out the to-do list. He fills a glass with tap water, rivulets dragging down the side of the cup, before greeting his indoor plants one by one. He bids hello to Nicholas and Adam, complimenting their new leaves that are unfurling, checking the soil at their roots to test the dampness. He tells Maria, a silver pothos, that she’s glowing in the morning sun as he wipes the dust from her leaves. He rearranges the creeping vines of Cecelia along the TV unit, settling her tendrils to billow over the end of the unit like a waterfall. 

He doesn’t check his to-do list once during the time it takes him to greet and water his plants.

It’s a repeating habit and opportunity, and it’s where Corpse strikes. Using a computer is tedious when you’re your own source of electricity, and humans boil it down to a draft they must have written when they’re tired anyway. He could try something creative like throwing books from their neat positions on the shelves, but it would likely startle Sykkuno more than sedate his fear, and apparating was never on the table as an option. To-do list it is. 

His hand-writing is frail and shaky at best. It’s been a millennium since he has had to hold a writing device. Corpse could flick his fingers and tear the letters into the page, or could use his shadowed tendrils of power to hold the pen, or could move it with thought alone, but none of that feels genuine. So he grasps the pen in his right hand, gripping too hard with his ring finger, pinky pulling the underside of the device. He fiddles with it for a moment, growling under his breath, and he knows it increased the brightness of the glowing red light on the coffee machine but he chooses to ignore it, focused intently on finding his grip. Pen to paper, his lettering scratches black ink under the other items on Sykkuno’s list, scrawled on thin paper.

_To Do:_

  * _Walk Bimbus to pet store (anti-anxiety blanket?)_
  * _Respond to Audible ad email_
  * _Ask management about merch progress_
  * _Organise stream schedule for next week_



**_S o r r y_ **

It isn’t clean, it isn’t subtle, but that’s not what he’s going for by apologising. For having just written the word, he feels better for having done something to repent. The tops of the _r_ s are connected, the _o_ too square and tilted, the tail of the _y_ too curled, but he feels the relief wash over him like cool water on a hot day.

Sykkuno continues his routine, watering each plant, checking for dead leaves, looking for new shoots. He holds a pair of scissors in his hands, short but sturdy, and trims away at the browned leaves. He clips a fresh stem from a wandering plant and brings it to the kitchen. On the windowsill above the sink, in a glass half-filled with water, he set the cutting so the single leaf sits over the edge of the cup, roots submerged. He turns on his heels, back to the island counter where the list awaits. Corpse stands behind the island, looking in on the kitchen, hands steepled against his lips, waiting on bated breath for Sykkuno to see. 

Sykkuno stills in his turn, his posture turning taut and tense, his aura immediately diving into further purples and violets. His eyes are glued to the notepad, wide and startled like a deer in headlights. His arms are still raised from depositing the cutting in the glass, frozen in the air. His face pales, just a little, under the adrenaline that shoots through his veins. Corpse watches the venom settle in, watches it bleed through Sykkuno’s muscles and skin, paralysing him. Like rapid-fire, waves of red, purple, scarlet, heliotrope, blood, wine, and blueberry wash from him, an explosion of colours, of thoughts processing like the single-image frames of a movie. 

And then it passes. Sykkuno’s arms fall to his sides. His shoulders drop from their position hunched up high. His agape mouth softens into a sad smile. His eyes scrunch up at the sides with it, too. He takes two small steps towards the paper, wiping his index finger across the paper to feel the indents, catching in the scratches of the top of the _s_. Sykkuno huffs, an exhale filled with disbelieving laughter.

“Yeah,” Sykkuno breathes out, “yeah.” God, it scares Corpse. He’s leaking fire and blood and clay into the air, his aura tinting his vision with everything _but Sykkuno_ in anticipation. It’s like he’s on the edge of a cliff with no fail-safe to catch him. 

“Apology accepted, I guess,” Sykkuno laughs, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all. Corpse releases the breath he knew he was holding, his chest aching with the relief. He feels light-headed from it. “I, uh-,” Sykkuno starts, aura a shaky yellow, daisies shooting from the points of his shoulders through the sweetpeas that bloom. He rubs the back of his neck with his left hand. “I never liked living alone anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's progress, baby!!!
> 
> this chapter was extra long and got away from me, whoops. please don't let it set your expectations on how long future chapters will be - i _will_ let you down.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have an update schedule planned - I'm a fulltime government employee who types for eight hours straight five days per week, and a single puppy parent. RSIs and a puppy who needs constant attention is not a productive writing environment.


End file.
